


The Story of a boy

by Kaipiroska



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Kinda, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:32:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaipiroska/pseuds/Kaipiroska
Summary: There are many stories that try to fill in the blanks of a character mysterious life. This is just one of many.





	The Story of a boy

Nobody knows where the boy grew up. Voices say he grew up alone in the forest, learning how to take care for himself while growing up with the wolves. Others say he was made from stone and given life from a wyvern’s breath. The most plausible however, talks about a man in armor, a knight perhaps, training his son in a unnamed village, locate between two kingdoms at war. The boy never knew his mother, that she either died giving birth to him or just disappear when he was young it’s not known, nor it’s important. All he knew in his earlier life was his father, a man bigger than a bookshelf and stronger than a bear. The man trained the boy with discipline and sternness, for his goal was to forge a warrior capable of leading a country. Some say he was one of the last surving knights of a once great empire, others talk about a bitter second in comand who never had his moment to shine. It does not matter who he was, what mattered was what he taught the boy. He taught him how to fight, how to read, how to hunt. The boy hated hunting. Animals were simple, they were not twisted as men. They were pure.  They didn’t pledge wars, they didn’t actively kill their own kin. After he saw the life of a deer faint from its eyes after it was took down by one of his arrows, the boy swore that given the chance, this would have been the only teaching of his father he refused. The boy never complained about the harsh training, not when his arms screamed for the excessive work, not when his forces abandoned him under the rain, not even when during the night he was holding back the tears for how stiff his muscles were.The only time he did feel something clunking in his chest was every time his father punched him during training. A feeling that weakened him, that made his eyes tear up. That feeling however exposed him to more punches, so the boy learned to ignore it.

 

“ _ You need to be stronger. Not only in sheer strength.”  _

 

The kid started reading books near the fireplace, alone, with only a candle to keep him company. The boy was curious about many things, tales, history, strategy, philosophy.  He read about the philosophers themselves. Most of them died in poverty and misery. The kid threw away those books. He didn’t need advices from weak people. He started reading about conquerors, kings, people who were strong and led countries and kingdoms. He read about the tale of the twilight of the gods,  about the emperor who killed one of Dragon gods of his land and threw the continent in a shift, only for the figure of the Saint-King to emerge and unify the nations at war, free from the pawn of mad gods. He read the tales of the Hero-King and the first Exalt, and how they took down monster who called themselves deities. He read of the twins that defeated the King of all evils. The story of the Vanguard who took down the god of order who threatened humanity. Whatever the tale or legend, he learned one thing: of gods, or those who call themselves so, there is little to trust.

Days turned into weeks and months, the boy grew up strong. He saw the chaos that war brought, and occasionally took down bandits that threatened the village.

“ _Taking down two or three bandits won’t change anything, boy. To truly kill a plantain you cut off the roots.”_ Said his father to him one day he returned from feeding off bandits. The boy kept growing, his stature starting to catch up with his father.

One day his father gave him a real sword instead of the usual wood one. 

“ _ We are going to fight. If you don’t kill me, I will kill you.”  _

The boy was surprised, but he still nodded in silence without question it.  The father and the boy fought hard for so long that the sun let his place to the moon and returned in its place the day after, this time however covered by dark clouds that poured rain over them. The boy managed to overcome his father, plunging his sword in his father’s chest. The father fell to the ground and smiled as his life slipped away. 

_ “I have nothing else to teach you. Go and unite the world under your fist. And beware of the Grimeal, for they are the only thing that can stop your march.”  _

The boy felt a familiar sensation in his chest as his father died, a sensation building up with him since forever. He brought his hand to his chest and tightened around it, as to suffocate it. The sensation grew stronger than ever, but the boy fought against it, his body was shaking, the vision was blurred, sweat started forming anew. His breaths became faster and the turmoil inside him seemed to scream so loud that it could tear him apart from inside. The boy rejected all of it. It wasn’t the time, it would have never been. The sensation died then in an instant, and boy couldn’t help but wonder why the rain suddenly felt hot against his skin. 

Time passed. The boy became a man and enlisted in the army of the nearest country, a little kingdom worth only for carrying the name of a once great empire. His skills helped him rise among the ranks, as after every victory he just grew stronger and stronger. Among the troops started the rumor that he was the second coming of the Saint-King. His achievements were not ignored, and the king himself nominated him general,giving him an axe of the past empire as reward. Despite his new role, he kept fighting in the front lines among his soldiers during the war. But he needed something more.  He needed to move faster. He needed a mount. The only horse capable of carry him was untamed however. But when he faced the wild animal , the beast stood still. After an hour, staring at each other, it kneeled and let him mount it. His comrades asked how he managed, and he simply responded saying that ‘he trusted him.’

 

Between front lines and cities, he watched on both sides soldiers and citizens worshipping the statues of their gods, begging to relief their sorrow and give them strength during such dire times.  _ Fools,  _ he though, their prayers were words in the wind. Strength is not gained, it’s earned.  

He led a devastating charge against the enemy lines, wiping out everyone foolish enough to stand in his way. As he started piling up victory after victory, his men started being more loyal to him than the king himself. The rumors reached the king’s ear and he started to fear the general might overthrow him, so he ordered his execution. When the king’s men send to take him in custody to execute him didn’t return, the king  sent more. When even they didn’t return, he sent a brigade. Then a battalion. No one returned. Sick of the king’s mere attempts at his life, he marched back with his men to his former king’s castle, Castel Zofia, and overthrew him. Once the king’s head was put on a spike, He was hailed as the new King, and returned his focus on the attack he interrupted to take care of his former lord. 

When he breached into enemy’s territory, he was met with open arms by their citiziens. People said he was the reincarnation of their god, Father War, Duma, and did not oppose him. He kept marching, nothing able to arrest his way.  Not magic, not loyalty, nothing. The enemy’s castle was once the Rigelian Castle, home of the emperor who slaughtered the goddess Mila, now home of a meek king that squirmed and begged when He entered in the throne room. The vermin died of fear before He could even raise his axe. While ravishing the King’s treasure room, most of his soldiers rushed towards the gold and jewels. He, on the other hand, eyed a red armor. It seemed based on Emperor Rudolph’s famous one. It reminded him of his father. It reminded him of  _ power. _ He made it reforge to adjust his size, he disposed of the shield and the lance, for he didn’t believe in retreats or sly strikes.  His horns gave him the appearance of a demon, and for all that little it was knew about him, he probably was to the eyes of everyone. 

People started calling him various names. 

Demon. 

Fiend. 

Monster.

Dragon. 

Conqueror. 

But he knew he needed a name. A name strong in which the people would call out in respect and fear. He though about that day he killed for the first, and last time, a deer. 

Wallhart. 

That will do. 

Time passed and he kept marching, kingdom falling under his army as castle made of sand. One of the counts fleeded before He even arrived at their doorsteps. He was welcomed as the new monarch by the  county, who was disgusted by the cowardice of their previous ruler. The man smiled. These will make fine soldiers. The next kingdom fought bravely. Even when the royal castle was set ablaze, the two monarchs fought valiantly. Their thin swords however were not capable of blocking his axe. He left the bodies of the king and the queen inside of the flaming castle. A well deserved tomb, in his opinion. Later he was informed that the son of the former lords had joined their ranks.  _ Good,  _ he simply said. The daughter however had fleed to form a resistance. Wallhart admired the resolution, despite how much poitless it was. If every king and lord was like the ones he met until now, then no wonder the world needed to be saved. Under a year, Valm is under his fist, yet it’s not enough. He was raised for a purpose, and he will not stop. He had to unify the world. And the greatest threat to his dream were the grimeal. During his conquest he heard of the war between the Ylisse and Plegia, but decided to not interfere. If he wanted to conquer the world, he needed a stable foundation, and Valm wasn’t completely his yet.  But now that an entire continent was under his power, he had to make a simple decision. Which nation attack first?

The war room is filled with bickering, fallen lords and tacticians arguing whenever or not attack the nearby continent. 

“They just finished a war, they’re broken and tired!”

“It’s Ylisse, they have the Fire Emblem at their side!” 

“They are descendants of the Hero-King!” 

“And Plegia has the Grima’s fanatics.” 

“We should attack Plegia, their fleet is most likely still intact. Once we take them down, ferox and Ylisse will be easy!” 

“And in the meanwhile they can prepare themselves for when we come for them! BRILLIANT!” 

“We should focus on Ylisse and Ferox then, you fat snake?” 

“I’m saying we should attack now, before they get a chance to recover!”

 

“What shall we do, mylord?” asks the sly tactician. 

Wallhart is silent. The land of the hero-king and the cursed fell dragon. A continent in which the gods have always interfered with men. To conquer it, it means to face those gifted by the divines. 

To conquer them, means proving that man can triumph without gods, just like the rigelian emperor and the Saint King did. One or the other, they will do. 

Wallhart smiles. 

**_“We march.”_ **

**Author's Note:**

> And that was my version of Wallhart's young life. I hope you liked it, let me know.


End file.
